"You don't drink on the clock? I won't tell." Wyatt winks and then, looking over my shoulder, nods as someone approaches. "Ah, Kerrigan. Have you heard the wonderful news? Your brother has found himself a fiancée. Allow me to introduce you to your future sister-in-law, Daisy."

I do my best not to groan. This is already so out of control. Now his sister? I turn, prepared to smile and nod my way out of this, when instead, I'm embraced into a tight hug. I stand still, unsure of what's happening except for that Kyle's sister is really, really excited about this fake engagement.

Shit.

"Kyle said he had something to tell me!" she exclaims, clapping her hands together in glee. It's genuine glee, I notice that right off. There's nothing artificial about this girl. She's brimming in naivety and enthusiasm. Young, is my next observation. I'm guessing at least college-age, but likely still in her first or second year. Gorgeous. Long dark hair, a pale blush dress that didn't come from a sale rack, and big blue eyes.

"Then Margo said you came in with Wyatt and I thought she was teasing me but"—she cuts herself off mid-sentence—"here you are!"

"Here I am," I agree with much less enthusiasm than she has. This is like being witness to a train wreck. Or watching fake news spread on the internet. Except I'm the fake news and I'm the one driving the train, so it's much, much worse.

It's official, I'm the worst person on the planet.

She's sweet and young and eager and she should not be in the middle of this.

Another waiter passes offering champagne and before I can ask if he'll take the full glass off my hands Kerrigan has nabbed one for herself and the waiter is gone. I think it should be noted that involving her was an accident. A great big accidental mishap. I would never have involved her on purpose. This is too much, too messy. And way, way off plan.

"Cheers!" She beams, clinking her glass to mine.

"Are you old enough to drink that?" I question before she's even had a chance to sip.

"Ugh." She groans and lowers the glass with a scowl. "You sound just like Kyle." Wyatt snickers and murmurs something about Kyle paying extra for babysitting, so I'm distracted when Kerrigan presses her glass into my hand so she can snag hors d'oeuvres from another passing waiter. She offers one to me, but I’m now holding two champagne glasses and besides, whatever it is smells disgusting.

"No, thank you." I take a step back, looking again for an escape from both the smell and this disaster.

"Kyle hates crab too!" Kerrigan exclaims as if a shared dislike for smelly finger foods makes us a match made in heaven. "Where is he anyway? He's normally such an overprotective drama llama, I can't believe he left you alone."

"Stiflingly possessive, is the description I've heard..." Wyatt comments.

"Wyatt, don't start," Kerrigan chastises him and I know I'm missing something here. Some drama.

"Don't worry, I'm just keeping an eye on her until Kyle shows up." Wyatt steps closer, as if he's some kind of protector, but it makes me feel anything but protected. I feel caged in, and a bit helpless without the use of my hands. A flush creeps up my neck as I glance around for a place to ditch the champagne glasses while Wyatt bickers with Kerrigan. I take a step backward and bump into someone. I'm turning to apologize when the someone speaks.

"I can watch her myself, thanks."

I know that voice.

It's been ten weeks, but I haven't forgotten it. Husky, and a bit gravelly. At the moment, no-nonsense and emotionless. Yet my body instinctively responds to it, like muscle memory. My heart rate increases and despite everything, my slutty libido responds as if I'm not already pregnant with this man's baby but would very much like to practice every possible way to make that happen.

"Kyle." I say it on an exhale, as if I've been holding my breath all night. I feel like I've been holding it for weeks. Since I saw him last. Since I realized I was pregnant. Since finding him again proved nearly impossible. I'm nearly limp with relief as I turn to look at him.

"Daisy," he replies evenly.

Relief isn't how I'd describe his expression.

5

Daisy

"Kyle!" Kerrigan is ecstatic at his arrival, throwing her arms around his neck in an exuberant hug as she chatters nonstop. He returns her embrace, patting her on the back and responding, but his eyes never leave mine.

If I had to describe his expression I'd call it controlled rage. Immediate recognition followed by disbelief before sliding into a look that makes me suspect he's never had a woman lie about being his fiancée before.

My stomach clenches with nerves while my heart races faster than I'd like it to, my traitorous heart happy to remember how it began between us and not how it ended.

We met in Boston. On a day that would unknowingly change my life. I'd just finished leading a bus of tourists from Washington, D.C. to Boston and I had a couple of days before I was scheduled on my next tour—a reverse of the same trip, Boston back to D.C. So I opted to stay in the city rather than fly home and back.

One tiny decision that set off a bombshell of life changes. What if I'd just gone home? What if I'd turned and run the opposite direction when I caught sight of him, instead of waiting long enough for his gaze to find mine? It made me dizzy, his eyes, his attention. Him. Have you ever met a man like that?

You know the feeling. The butterflies, the energy. The weird cosmic sense that he must be feeling the same, that the amount of energy swirling in your belly and the quickening of your heart can't be one-sided.

I was on my way to Fenway Park. I didn't have any particular interest in baseball, but it seemed like attending a Red Sox game at Fenway was a life event worth experiencing and I had a summer day free for exploring. He was checking his watch when I caught sight of him, gorgeous and impatient standing on a sidewalk outside the coffee shop I'd just left. He was in a grey T-shirt and cargo shorts, casual. The shirt looked soft and well-worn-in, the kind you'd steal from your boyfriend because the cotton would have the same effect as rubbing a kitten against your bare skin. He filled out the shirt nicely, and the shorts hung just so over a flat stomach and narrow hips.

Just my type.

When he caught me looking at him he smiled and I implored myself to walk away even as I stepped closer. I was a bit turned around and it wouldn't hurt to ask him if he could point me in the right direction to the stadium, would it?

I didn't need a fling in a city that wasn't my own. I didn't need a fling at all. I was doing so well on the dick diet and this guy was the cover model to a novel called The Problem With Men Who Give Mind-Blowing Orgasms.

I stepped closer.

I asked him if he knew how to get to the stadium.

"Mr. Kingston," a voice beside me interrupted, "the car is ready."

"I'll give you a ride," he said, not taking his eyes off mine. "I'm headed there myself."

As if. I'd seen every serial killer special on Netflix and I didn't even know his name. I didn't need a ride in the back of a town car, I needed to be pointed in the right direction. Which was exactly what I told him. He smiled, a look of genuine surprise at my refusal crossing his face.